


De Bonne Foi

by grabmotte



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Episode Related, Fluff, Gen, Loyalty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-21
Updated: 2014-03-21
Packaged: 2018-01-16 12:06:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1346833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grabmotte/pseuds/grabmotte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written as a coda to episode 8.  Tréville is recovering from his wounds and confronts the cardinal about Labarge.</p><p>(I simply felt someone should give Tréville a hug. And that Athos might possibly (stupidly) feel the need to apologise. And then someone suggested the episode was a good set-up for a fallout between Tréville and Richelieu.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	De Bonne Foi

Following a royal summons Tréville was walking the palace halls towards the king's audience chambers. His arm, freshly bandaged gave him pains, but still, and much to the chagrin of his staff, nothing would keep him confined to his private quarters. 

No one would have taken it against him if he had asked to be sent on leave, perhaps even for a couple of weeks. He had had to have his arm set and splinted and there was nothing much to be done about the pain unless he wished to spend his days drugged out of his mind until the bones had mended. The latter was something Tréville could not afford. He would rather get back to work with a broken arm as soon as possible and bear the pain than become incapacitated like that. And he certainly would not be able to supervise the musketeers with his mind addled by painkillers. He shuddered to think what his men would get up to if it ever came to that.

They were good men. He recalled how they had stormed onto the field for him, and how he had felt in that moment – apart from the searing pain in his arm, of course – and was taken by a wave of fatherly pride and affection that arrested him on the spot and forced him to pause for a moment. 

Still that they were the best men he could possibly wish for did not change the fact that he did not trust them not to turn the garrison, if not the whole city of Paris, into a hell house if left to their own devices even for a couple of days. 

When Tréville finally arrived at his destination, the grand room flooded with light, he found himself facing not the king, but the next best (or rather worst) thing to him, Cardinal Richelieu. He looked pleased to see Tréville, or at least pretended to. 

They had not spoken since Tréville's duel with Labarge, but it was clear that the nature of their relationship had shifted and Tréville was not keen on catching up to find out exactly how. Since the change obviously had not been for the better, he would have to approach this conversation with caution. 

"Captain Tréville, how good to see you on your feet again." 

The cardinal smiled and Tréville was struck by how much the man looked like a weasel.

"I've had worse encounters, Your Eminence."

"You took quite a beating. For a moment during the fight I was worried you would no longer be able to grace us with your company." 

The cardinal's expression in that moment was unreadable and Tréville had to admit to himself that he had not yet regained enough of his strength for these levels of veiled insults.

"My apologies", he said, "I had assumed you enjoyed the show."

"Believe me, to see you die would have greatly saddened me."

Over the years Tréville had learned to tell the cardinal's moods. Usually he knew when the man was being sarcastic, when he was being insincere. Yet, the expression, the tone, the body language that went with this last statement were wholly new to the captain. It disturbed him that this might mean Richelieu truly meant what he said. 

It almost caused Tréville to forget all speech for a moment, but his own anger kept him focused.

"If that is so, I'd appreciate if you could in the future refrain from trying to involve my men in one of your sick games."

"What games may those be?" That damned cassock-clad viper had the guts to cock an amused eyebrow at the accusation! "If I remember correctly all I did recently was agree to a friendly sport under the king's eyes, as did you."

"You sent a murderer to fight in a competition of honour!" And with that Tréville threw all his pretentions to caution into the wind. 

Richelieu remained predictably unimpressed by this outburst, not batting a single eyelash.

"Oh, come now. The king has these romantic notions of nobility and honour because he's never had a reason to view a fight as anything other than entertainment or something that happens either in novels or to lesser people. But you know better. The only purpose of a sword is to kill. One does not draw it to play, or to lightly bruise and then put it away again unblooded. A duel ends in death more often than not no matter who wields the weapon."

Tréville shook his head. "It is impossible to expect a man to respect honour who would know nothing about it."

When he looked up again Richelieu was staring at him intently. 

"You disappoint me, Captain."

Tréville was taken aback by how serious the cardinal sounded. 

He had expected Richelieu to wave his indignation away with amused quips and sarcastic barbs. But in fact, he had rarely heard the man sound more serious in a situation that did not see the future and might of France at stake.

Tréville would have gripped his sword for support against the shock, but as that would have been awkward to do with his right hand he cradled his arm instead. It obviously undercut the confident image he tried to convey.

"Would you let a concern for mere pawns stand in the way of progress? These aren't the Middle Ages, Captain. Chivalry is dead. You must realise this is a new era. Please, it would hurt me to see you throw yourself away like that again. There is simply no place in this new France for white knights too eager to fall on their swords."

Where did Richelieu expect this backhanded flattery to get him? Did he want Tréville to place his good faith in him after what he had done?

"Whose France is that? The France of a romantic king? Or Yours?"

"Don't!" He had said the word probably sharper than he had intended, for his tone was ever so sweet for his next line, which was accompanied by a smile full of teeth. "One should choose one's friends wisely, Captain. And one's enemies even more so."

The fine hairs on Tréville's neck stood up. Yet, he noted only rather detachedly how little it surprised him that it had finally come to exchanging threats between him. 

"I don't choose my enemies, Your Eminence" he said, feeling unbearably cold. "They choose me, by opposing my king, or by wasting the lives of good men."

Richelieu's smirk turned into a sneer. No doubt he had an endless barrage of snide comments ready to respond, but then the king entered. 

Oblivious too the argument that he had just interrupted his face lit up, revealing a wide grin when he spotted Tréville next to his favourite advisor. 

"My dear captain! How are you getting on?"

Tréville thanked His Majesty for his concern, told him he was well and that while his arm might slow him down in executing his duties, he would not let it keep him from doing his job. In fact, he would head for the musketeers' garrison as soon as he left the palace. At that the king playfully admonished him for impeding on his own convalescence by overworking himself, using a tone as if he were rebuking an unruly child. It was so comical that Tréville had to smile fondly. 

And then His Majesty embraced him. Tréville tried not to wince as the king brushed his injured arm, but at least the man had not thrown himself at him. It was the tenderest, briefest of gestures.

And with that the king dismissed him. Apparently he had summoned him all the way to the palace for a hug. This should have been a breach of some courtly protocol, but that was the king for you. 

Well, stranger things happened, as did less pleasant ones.

* * *

Just as he had told the king he would Tréville returned to his office immediately upon leaving. He was glad to be out of the cardinal's company, and glad to be able to distract himself from their unsettling conversation. He had enough paperwork to catch up on which should not prove too demanding for his condition. But his attempts at throwing himself into work did not go quite as well as he had hoped. Dark thoughts that Richelieu might finally be out for his blood kept disturbing him, as did the occasional jab of pain.

Still he wouldn't ask for stronger medication. The pain in his arm and shoulder was not so bad if he managed to stop himself from trying to move it or anything from moving against it. And then again there were some pains that were worth being reminded of: pains that strangely were worth having. They stemmed from those injuries you were proud of. 

All in all Tréville considered himself lucky. His arm would mend, there had been no need for amputation, and the pains he suffered for it now were negligible when he considered that even losing his arm would have been a small price to pay for having faced Labarge himself.

His response to Richelieu's threats might have been blunt but he meant it. He would lose no more men to the cardinal's petty games and court intrigue. Never again.

That duel had been intended as nothing other than an assassination attempt on one of his finest soldiers – whoever would have won the contest – set up by the cardinal. Larbarge would not have been content with drawing first blood, oh no. He would not have stopped after he had brutalised and humiliated his opponent. Labarge had been a man who did indeed draw his sword for play – _and_ for killing. 

How could anyone ask a man to walk into a trap like that if he were not prepared to face it himself? How could anyone possibly have asked Tréville to stand aside while that butcher made to slaughter one of his boys? No one, absolutely no one had the right.

Thought of an urgent matter flashed up in his mind at his contemplating the duel. He had to make sure he repaid the men their entry fees. 

He searched for the list of names of the men who had entered and had just settled down to read it over when one of his musketeers asked to see him. It was Athos.

The man had barely stepped into his office and voiced a greeting before he came straight to the point. 

"Sir, I've come to apologise."

"Apologise?" How typical of Athos. How ridiculous. 

"For my outburst", he drew out his words deliberately, unsure why his captain was pretending to have forgotten about their argument. "I believe I did you an injustice."

"You have nothing to apologise for, Athos. You were right after all." 

"Sir?"

"The boy, d'Artagnan, has proved himself beyond all doubt. He will be a fine musketeer, one of the best, if I'm to judge." 

"Captain, I thank you for overlooking my outburst. It was conduct unbecoming a soldier. But you know that is not what I meant. I wish to make it clear –" Athos was insistent on pressing his luck but Tréville would not let him dig his own hole any deeper.

"Athos, sometimes a soldier needs to know when to retreat. Although I know you musketeers all love to pretend you never learned that lesson."

At that Athos almost gave up. Almost. The man never knew what was good for him. "You knew who the cardinal had chosen as his champion before you nominated yourself. You—"

"Athos." Tréville nearly growled the name this time, a clear warning. But he continued in a friendlier tone: "Perhaps you were right about more things than young d'Artagnan. Perhaps I did mean to bask in old gory." He gestured at his useless arm. "And I paid for it. What a good thing you young fellows were around to save me from my own folly." 

Athos might have actually looked a bit hurt at the insinuation, but Tréville was not in a merciful mood. The man had had his chance to retreat gracefully. The young musketeer had brought this upon himself. 

Tréville knew what Athos was trying to do, but he would not let him. He did not need to hear it. Underneath the heroism his men, and now Athos, were so eager to attribute him his reasons for fighting Labarge had been selfish. Yes, Tréville had felt a need to protect the musketeers. After all, the duel had been his responsibility and they did not deserve to be sacrificed for a feud so petty. But he also had wanted to thwart the cardinal's plans, wipe the self-satisfied expression from his face. And more than that, more than anything he had simply wanted revenge. Revenge for two murdered musketeers, who had come to him as fresh, yet promising recruits and who had risen to earn their commissions alongside the king's finest soldiers under his leadership only to bleed out in some forlorn alley. 

And there might also have been his own pride that had made him turn his back on a wounded opponent he had known to be a monster. Well, at least that pride had gotten soundly thrashed. 

Either way Athos was mortified. 

"Sir, you cannot expect me to believe that. Not after … what I came here to say is, I didn't before, but I think I understand now."

Tréville raised one corner of his mouth slightly in a half-smile that was as bitter-sweet as he felt. 

"I should hope so," he said. "I do hope that one day, barring accidents, when you are in my position you will understand."

Understand that you cannot ask of your men what you would not do yourself. Understand what it means that they must obey your every order on pain of death. Understand that they deserve these orders to make sense. Understand, above all things, that the cause you will eventually have them surrender their young lives for must be a righteous one. 

"Sir!" Athos' response wasn't a question but still he looked at Tréville somewhat nonplussed. Or in shock. 

Tréville tried for a softer tone: "Retreat, Athos."

"Yes, thank you, Captain."

After Athos had left Tréville waited a moment and then followed him outside to stand on the balcony overlooking the courtyard where even at this moment musketeers were sparring, gambling, or simply sitting together drinking. None of them looked up. None of them took any notice of him. 

When he had first walked back to the garrison after the duel he had been nervous about the welcome he would receive. It had been a queer feeling to walk into his own courtyard, surrounded by his own men, and to feel anxious.

He had been afraid that seeing him defeated would cause his musketeers to see him with different eyes. He had been afraid that his one moment of carelessness, turning his back to a wounded Labarge, had cost him what he had spent a lifetime building. It had been the fear of the old, wounded wolf losing the respect of the pack. But their ranks had only closed around him tighter, and the respect and admiration they showed him had grown deeper. 

If anything Athos' visit had reaffirmed that he was training exceptionally perceptive young men. They would still do anything for him that he asked of them, even after he had seemingly taken them for fools by having them pay and compete to win a glory that he would then claim for himself. And they would continue to follow him into whatever hell he led them not solely because he could have them court-martialled for disobeying, but because it was he who would ask them to follow. 

Loyalty was a double-edged sword. A wonderful, dangerous weapon and he must always be careful where he pointed it.

Watching his dear musketeers below he had to think of the cardinal again and his own personal guard, the men to whom Richelieu trusted his life every day. Tréville had seen how he treated them; how he had taken the man who had killed the officer they had held in such high regard and made him their superior. And he had seen how they feared the cardinal, the man they had sworn their oaths to. But they feared him not with the same kind of awe in which the musketeers held their captain. 

In light of the cardinal's coldness it seemed to Tréville that Richelieu's threats rang both more disturbing and yet hollower at the same time. 

May your god ever protect you, Cardinal, he thought. One day no one else will.


End file.
